Reading Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver won the Pulitzer for Poetry in 1984 for her collection American Primitive.  She has long been one of my favorite poets ever since my mother introduced me to her when I was about twelve.  She is good stuff.  I was mulling over my poetry shelf today and picked Oliver up again, and have been devouring her work all day.  Have to share a few.  (PS - It is sooo great to be reading and writing poetry again.  I can't believe I forgot what it's like!  A two year drought finally over!)

Is the soul solid, like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, like
the wings of a moth in the beak of the owl?
Who has it, and who doesn't?
I keep looking around me.
The face of the moose is as sad
as the face of Jesus.
The swan opens her white wings slowly.
In the fall, the black bear carries leaves into the darkness.
One question leads to another.
Does it have a shape?  Like an iceberg?
Like the eye of a hummingbird?
Does it have one lung, like the snake and the scallop?
Why should I have it, and not the anteater
who loves her children?
Why should I have it, and not the camel?
Come to think of it, what about the maple trees?
What about the blue iris?
What about all the little stones, sitting alone in the moonlight?
What about roses, and lemons, and their shining leaves?
What about the grass?

they slid
    like sponges,
        like too many thumbs.
            I knew this, and what I wanted

was to draw my hands back
    from the water--what I wanted
        was to be willing
            to be afraid.

But I stayed there,
    I crouched on the stone wall
        while the sea poured its harsh song
            through the sluices,

while I waited for the gritty lightning
    of their touch, while I stared
        down through the tide's leaving
            where sometimes I could see them--

their stubborn flesh
    lounging on my knuckles.
        What good does it do
            to lie all day in the sun

loving what is easy?
    It never grew easy,
        but at last I grew peaceful:
            all summer

my fear diminished
    as they bloomed through the water
        like flowers, like flecks
            of an uncertain dream,

while I lay on the rocks, reaching
    into the darkness, learning
        little by little to love
            our only world.